


Finding Finally

by spookywoods



Series: Truthfully [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, New York Fashion Week, Not Epilogue Compliant, Partying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods
Summary: Millie takes you to Fashion Week parties, runway shows, all the things you’ve seen before, but the unfamiliar people and places refresh you. Barely anyone knows you, barely anyone cares to. You drink too much, you wake up with models, and you love it. That is until you leave the outdoor Rodarte show to find yourself an unopened bottle of Armand de Brignac and run into Luna Lovegood.





	Finding Finally

**Author's Note:**

> Very special thanks to the amazing [keyflight790](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790) for betaing this so quickly. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is what happens when I scroll through the NYFW tag for almost an hour. My first attempt at both second person point of view and femslash. 
> 
> I just love these two so much.

When you fall in love, it isn’t a subtle realization. Nothing you do is subtle. It isn’t a question of  _ if _ you love, it boils down to  _ how much.  _ And that’s a question you never ask, from the Hermes handbag you carry to the deepest, strangest places of your heart. 

How did you get here? 

You took a portkey, that’s how. 

The inescapable lure of New York in September and Millicent Bulstrode-Harwick footing the bill made leaving behind the stream of endless, meaningless parties and faces back in London easy. And you like things easy. 

You’ve always loved New York. It doesn’t try to hide what it is, and you love the lack of nonsense, the grit that surrounds the elegance of steel and sweat. It makes the brick and silk and society that much more striking. New York doesn’t lie to you, and that’s how you know you’re fucked. 

Millie takes you to Fashion Week parties, runway shows, all the things you’ve seen before, but the unfamiliar people and places refresh you. Barely anyone knows you, barely anyone cares to. You drink too much, you wake up with models, and you love it. That is, until you leave the outdoor Rodarte show to find yourself an unopened bottle of Armand de Brignac and run into Luna Lovegood. 

Bathed in the distant and muted lighting from the after-party tent, she’s animated and exquisite as she talks to a man you vaguely recognise as a French wizarding fashion columnist. When Lovegood looks your way, the recognition traps you, and your feet refuse to save you from the pull of her captivating stare. 

“Hello Pansy,” she practically sings, and it’s a siren’s song, the mere cadence of her voice. “Are you enjoying Fashion Week?” 

Her long blonde hair is like a waterfall over her shoulders, waves of reckless curls falling down her back, hiding most of a vintage Chanel red floral blouse. You’re impressed that she’s paired it with a high-waisted black mini skirt that covers very little of her legs. You envy her sun-kissed skin. Maybe you stare too long at her knees, the curve of her calves, wondering all of the things she did to get such a golden glow.

Finally, you smirk, and say something vague, rhetorical like,  _ Does the earth go around the sun?  _ You’ve been known to muck it up, and you wonder if you have already; after all, you have had a lot to drink. Maybe you say it wrong. Luna smiles either way and invites you to Jean Portier’s show, rumored to have fused magnificent florals with traditional wizarding robes for Spring. 

It hits you then that Luna Lovegood cares about fashion, that she wants to be seen with you, talk to you—and that’s a slippery slope. You don’t acknowledge the past, you don’t admit anything, and you certainly don’t hang around with someone you once considered an enemy. You laugh at the ridiculous notion of the two of you sitting together at a show. 

“Good day,” you think you say as you meander through the crowd to find that dose of bubbly you’d wanted. You drink, you dance, and you forget you even saw your reflection in her big, blue eyes. But when you stumble up to a penthouse loft with an Italian model, you remember her cascade of blonde hair, genuine smile, and those perfect, tanned legs. You remember what it felt like to be recognised,  _ remembered.  _

It almost feels like being wanted. 

Suddenly, anonymous smiles and compliments and conversations hold nothing, mean nothing, and their emptiness drives you mad. Every moment is haunted by some invisible force, an anxious press to find something. You can’t find anything to quell your unease. 

Brunch with Millie is tiring. 

“You seem distracted,” she points out. 

“I ran into Luna Lovegood,” you say. You swirl your mimosa for a moment before finishing it. 

“I heard she has her own line now that she started working with Alfreda d’Ambrosius.” 

Your mouth falls open. “As in—?” 

Millie smiles and focuses on her food. “It’s quite well known now, Pans. She’s up and coming.” 

You make sure you’re at the Alfreda d’Ambrosius show. You get a front row seat next to a chatty, distant relative of the Greengrass family. Despite the company, the show draws you in. 

It comes alive for you in subtle, mesmerizing ways. All the small details that steal your focus: the stripe of soft, pastel violet down the sides of a white suit; the quirky mix of fabrics in a set of casual day robes; the thick, beaded belts that bring texture and color to solid, flowing pieces. You think it’s all from her whimsical mind. 

You wonder if it’s all in your head. 

You don’t even know her. 

Suddenly, you think there’s nothing more you want in the world. 

So your Brian Atwood nude pumps carry you across the room to the bar and you approach her. She sings your name. You manage to steal her away from the crowd for almost a quarter of an hour. Mentioning the violet stripe adds an extra sparkle to her eyes, and without knowing how, you carry on a conversation about color and vibrancy, and the history of ladies slacks until Luna asks if you want to get lunch after the Ralph Lauren show. 

Of course you do, but you say no anyway. 

“Well, if you change your mind,” Luna smiles, her lips the color of pale, pink blossoming lilies. “I’ll be backstage with a friend.” 

You cross over to a muggle tent and find an open bar. Two martinis and a handful of cashews later and you’re rushing to find the Ralph Lauren show and maybe a lunch date. You con your way behind the curtain, but it isn’t easy. There’s something to be said for the magic of persuasion. 

The search for her seems endless amidst the rush of bodies. The noise almost becomes too much, so you seek out a quiet corner. That’s when you see her. 

You see the arc of her exposed back first, the glow of golden skin that leads to the haphazard twist of curls in a bun threatening to come undone. When she turns, you’re sure you gasp, and you wonder how could anything not come undone in the presence of such a thing of beauty. The gown clings to her every curve, starting at the farthest tip of her shoulders with the subtle ruffle of a cap sleeve, tracing down her chest in a plunging neckline. The fabric moulds itself to her hips, hugging her thighs before recovering its volume and branching out in a mermaid tail finish of soft, elegant ruffles. 

When she sees you, she smiles, and you step closer. She’s no siren, she’s divine, and you’re certain you’ve never seen a goddess on earth in the flesh. You shake your head, unable to decide if it’s the girl or the gown you’re dying to have. You look away. She isn’t your type. Leggy blondes went out of style—who are you kidding? 

“If you see something you like, you can have it,” Luna calls from behind the changing screen. 

You tell her you’re thinking about it. 

And you are. 

She explains that the rack on the other side is filled with older garments, that they’re available for friends of the designer. You wonder how she became so close to a muggle designer, and then you remember who she is and who you are. For a brief moment, you question why you’re there. But then she appears from behind the screen and locks her arm in yours, leading you through the maze and onto the street. 

She takes you to the New York underground and when you ask why, she says, “This is the only way I know to get to where we’re going.” 

You observe the rush, the variations of people in transit. You wait with Luna in a large chamber, surrounded by occupied muggles with their faces buried in books, magazines, and little metal squares. The dismal array of adverts, shiny tiles, and colorful graffiti brings you back, and you ask Luna what she likes best about the City. 

“It’s a wonderful wilderness,” she says, and you agree, at least from the perspective of a British Witch. “It’s so easy to get lost here,” she adds. Her eyes bore into you. “But the City helps you find your way back.” 

A gust of wind and the screech of the train signals more movement and the two of you shuffle onto a crowded compartment. Luna grabs a nearby pole and motions for you to take the empty place beside her. “You can hold on to me if you need to,” she offers. 

So you do. 

To avoid staring at her eyelashes, you stare at the other passengers. The car is full of all sorts.  You can tell there are a few from out-of-town, judging by the open transit map in front of their faces, the luggage at their feet. There’s also an older woman knitting, a man reading a book, a group of young boys laughing and pointing at each other. You wonder how much you missed out on in your life without the inconvenience of transit. How many moments did you lose to the ease of wizard travel? 

“That’s how I started out,” Luna says, and her voice brings you back from your reverie. 

You ask her to clarify. 

Luna points to the woman knitting. 

“I got my start in fashion knitting my kneazle a jumpsuit to protect it from Nargles.” 

You laugh and she smiles. 

“You have to start somewhere,” you offer, as the vision of a young Luna knitting wedges its way into your mind, stealing a place where cherished things go. 

“Are you getting much inspiration for your next project?” 

Her question almost surprises you. “You know about that?”

The train jolts and you almost run into her, but she steadies the both of you with a warm hand. “I saw your spread in  _ Wizard’s Digest.  _ I admired your use of wall silks and stucco.” 

“The client requested  _ subtle rococo. _ ” You roll your eyes. 

“You managed to pull off subtle, even with two-thirds of the wall covered in gold leaf.”

You take the compliment and pick her brain about the resurgence of seventeenth and eighteenth-century fashion. You go back and forth easily, and how refreshing is it having someone to talk with who knows a thing or two about design? Your other friends say things like, ‘I like that color’ or ‘The chair is hideous’, but Luna has an understanding of style and composition, and you feel as if you could stand uncomfortably on a moving, humid train car for hours talking to her. 

But eventually the train takes you where you’re going and Luna grabs your hand to lead you to the platform, not letting go even as you ascend to the street above. The two of you walk down a few unfamiliar blocks before she motions you into a crowded pizza parlour. 

“I’ve been waiting all week for this,” she smiles, and you think you might cry. The way she looks at the pizza is the way you know you’ve been looking at her. 

You’re sobering up and it doesn’t matter. You eat a genuine slice of Brooklyn and wash it down with a Coke. 

“How is everything?” the waitress asks. 

“It’s amazing,” you say, but you aren’t talking about the pizza. 

Two nights later, you see her at a rooftop party in Soho. If you’re honest with yourself, you know she’s going to be there. She’s holding a wine glass and laughing, her cheeks flushed, her body exquisite in a shimmery black halter dress with a glowing green belt.

 

When she sees you, she says, “At last,” like she’d been expecting you, waiting for you,  _ wanting you.  _ She kisses your cheek and sneaks her arm around your waist. It hits you then, with every laugh, every subtle touch, every glance that meets your eyes, it means something. 

 

It means something to her, and more importantly, more emphatically, it means something to you. You know yourself well enough to know you can’t ignore your feelings. 

 

And truthfully, the more you stand next to her, the more you breathe her in, the more you realize you don’t want to ignore what you’re feeling. 

_ Finally.  _

**Author's Note:**

> The title and some of Pansy's emotional conclusions are taken from the song "Truthfully" by Lisa Loeb
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos and comments always welcomed, appreciated, and cherished.


End file.
